


Mine Is the Kingdom

by ketherphorbia



Series: The Purkinje Effect [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Abduction, Cannibalism, Disabled Character, Drug Use, Kidnapping, M/M, Nuka World, Priests, Questionable Chemist, Questionable Priest, Roofies, Self-Reinvention, Sosu Isn't Nate or Nora, Stitches, Teratophilia, The Hinter (VT-NH-ME), Vampires, children of atom, operators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:57:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12743310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketherphorbia/pseuds/ketherphorbia
Summary: When Geek seized control of Nuka World, Melancholy found his opportunity to join up with a legitimately organized raider group: The Operators, ruthlessly efficient goods traffickers and extortionists. His life was together enough after 210 years frozen in Vault 111 to be able to appeal to the faction's leaders, the Siblings Black, as an invaluable chemist full of knowledge that died to the known world when the bombs fell. His tenure in The World of Refreshment, however, is short-lived, when he meets Nuka World's very own flesh-and-blood boogeyman. (Previously "An Equation Heaven Sent." Defunct rough draft for book three of "The Purkinje Effect.")





	1. Holy Water

Melancholy had made himself quite comfortable at the slave market bar. It was his second trip out to Nuka World, and he still couldn’t quite adjust to the thought of having permanent control over these people, wearing shock collars as they were. Geek made sure of it that these enslaved individuals were treated better than before he’d become the raiders’ overboss, but despite being a force of nature when he really got going, he’d been largely unable to free them from captivity altogether. For Melancholy, it was enough to subdue, manipulate. But these people here… After another shot of vodka, he wondered how much one cost.

“Sir…” His Handy-tron seemed mildly agitated, though it might have been more on account that he couldn’t process how to articulate what was wrong, than what was actually wrong.

He hadn’t noticed that it was just him and all the slaves left in the circular enclosure that had before the war, housed one of the larger gift shops of the park grounds. Even the wanderers and the two traveling merchants not shackled down had made themselves scarce. Everyone was quiet and standing perfectly still. He was about to question whether he’d said something off color without realizing it, but heavy footsteps trod the hard, dry clay of the open market behind him and he swiveled slowly to turn, assuming it was Geek from the weight in each step.

The figure, however, was not their overboss. A messy black ponytail topped a pale specter of a man who towered over everyone he passed. Wearing pastor’s vestments patched together from other garments as to actually fit him, he stood calmly beside ‘Choly at the bar, and peered down ambiguously at him with piercing, gaunt silvery eyes.

“Fff, Father Wachusett,” Maddox greeted through a thin veneer. His grey eyes twitched. “H– how can I make obeisance to you today?”

“Mm.” For a moment he simply glanced, unblinking, at the half-inebriated Operator dreg. 'Choly began to sweat, and crossed himself, out of some atavistic prewar compulsion. The father’s hard brow lightened after a minute, and he laughed abruptly and leaned down to wrap most of his arm around 'Choly’s shoulders. “A comedian. You must be new here.”

All 'Choly could do was nod rapidly with a frozen posture, though he soon glanced over the top of his sunglasses and held upward the rest of his fifth of vodka to offer it. Wachusett declined with a broad sliver of a smile. He patted 'Choly hard on the back, then crouched to lean on the counter with his arms, and glancing still downward at the slave who ran the chem bar, he produced from the rope at his waist a fistful of soft, brown leather and dropped it in front of the slave.

“Bloodworm fillets,” Maddox murmured intently, running a hand through his short brown hair as he inspected the contents of the wadded up leather with the other. He quickly drew the butchered meat below the counter and into a cooler. “Man, ain’t nobody do a cut of meat like you. Gimme twenty-four hours, Father. I’m good for it.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, then.” The giant turned from where he crouched to flash a fang-filled grin at 'Choly. “You should come back tomorrow, too. Same time. Fresh meat.”

“Y… yessir…”

A deep, low chuckle rumbled in Wachusett’s chest and he stood, tacitly waving a hand over the scrawny Operator’s shot glass. Then he put his huge hand on Choly’s head jokingly and paused, lingering long enough to make the dreg visibly panic before parting ways.

Once the enormous stranger had left, everyone audibly sighed with relief.

“Mackenzie, I’m shocked he didn’t come to see YOU for once,” Shelbie exclaimed, before clapping a hand over her mouth realizing she was in presence of a superior.

“No, it’s fine,” 'Choly mumbled, repeatedly crossing himself like he’d just met the devil himself. “Who or what is Father Wachusett?”

“Maximum tilt, guys,” Maddox uttered. “Wachusett capped our newest Operator.”

“Hope that means he likes ya,” Shelbie commented, not having left her stall across the way. “Last one he blessed the drink of, I don’t remember seeing or hearing of 'em again.”

'Choly looked down at his drink to find a single bottle cap floating in it. Rather than fish it out, he finished his shot and shook it onto the counter to retrieve it. No longer feeling like the formality of the glass had a place, he proceeded to drink from the bottle.

“Need I re-me pie-self. Who or what. Put this in my drink.”

“He’s not a Raider,” Mackenzie answered. The blonde medic slave walked over nearer, but didn’t leave her stall perimeter. “He’s been here at least as long as we have. He doesn’t talk much, but we know he lives north of the dam.”

“I heard somebody’s once shot him right through the heart and he carried on like it didn’t even happen,” Shelbie amended intensely, poorly hiding her excitement that Wachusett might pick off another one of their overlords. “Those teeth are what scares me, though.”

“Is he gone?” a Pack member moaned cautiously from the West doorway. “I saw him leave but–”

“He’s gone,” Maddox told her. “Can I fix you up, Miss Foxy? I’ve got some Jet with your name on it, beautiful.”

“Funny, that sounds like just the thing,” 'Choly remarked dully, fidgeting with the cap on the counter. “Here, you can even have my seat… it’s a wolf, not a fox, right?”

“Yeah. So stop hoggin’ the bar, Miss Prim n Posy. Get outta my seat.” The fur-loving young girl shoved him to get him moving, and pretty much threw his cane at him from where it had been hooked on the counter. “An’ take your tin can with ya before it ends up like N.I.R.A.”

“Wanna try that again?” he snapped. The small gadget dagger slipped out of his cane and against her throat. “You insult me, and you threaten my Handy. I don’t know what you’re saying you did to this N.I.R.A., but I know you didn’t just call me female.” He took another swig of liquor and stayed himself against her. “I have enormous patience normally, but you must day the– imagine I’ve been having if the Father spoke to me personally. Please be mindful that I don’t have an excuse to gift Mason a new pelt rug.”

“An Operator with a knife,” the Pack member said, wide eyed but ludicrous. “No offense, but half of ya look like you could be a guy or a lady. Yer all obsessed with preenin’. Old world displays of position n power… they seem all right. Fur n’ fangs do the job just as well though, if you ask me.”

“Fur has its place,” 'Choly agreed warmly, putting his knife away. “I have a piece myself,” he quickly added, realizing that despite his pleasant change of tone, his choice of words might be misconstrued. He motioned around his lapels. “A stole.”

“I dunno what animal that is,” she replied, touching her throat, “but it must be as weird as you if you like it. …Don’t do that again if you like having all your fingers.”

“Don’t give me fine to, and we’ll be a reason.”

“Sir… are we attempting the trifecta again?” Angel inquired worriedly, trailing behind him.

He hobbled off back to The Parlor for the night, suddenly not much feeling like walking all the way to Galactic Zone just for his own bed. There were still a few spare mattresses there, since most of Nuka Town USA had relocated to the parks that had been divided up among them. Melancholy could only imagine how cramped it must have been with them all at The Parlor, before Geek had drawn their straws for them and divvied up the entire Nuka World premises between the Operators and the Pack. And he was all right with getting ribbed by Lizzie, for not having the care or energy to go where William had stationed him. He could head up there tomorrow.

…After he saw Wachusett again.

That was the last thought that wandered across the folds of his brain as he collapsed in front of the animatronic Bottle and Cappy statue, not even making it into the front door of The Parlor before blacking out face-first in a gutter-blur of fair food garbage.


	2. Hungry Work

Everything pounded inside him. Melancholy awoke on his stomach, but he couldn’t move much. He opened his eyes and looked around. Rot, liquor, and blood tainted the air in the small shanty. Various bottles, jars, and hurricane dishes littered the shelves scattered around the room, but his glasses weren’t on his face, and he could discern neither where they were more what was in the containers without them. The light coming in from around the edges of the leather curtains did not exactly suggest the time of day, either. Then, he noticed the weight at his lower half shift, and understood someone knelt atop him. The full body ache had disguised the figure’s grip on his arms drawn behind his back.

A sharp sensation, then a tight one. Sharp, then tight. Every so often, the figure stopped, but sure enough would start again. ‘Choly looked out ahead of him again, assessing that he was on a low table. Mere yards away he recognized the wad of fabric as having been his clothing, and his eyes shot wide in desperate cognition that the kidnapper had slashed open his binding by the fan laces rather than unbuckle the surgical straps. There was no way he was getting home in one piece without them.

“Oh, good. You’re awake. I like when they’re awake.”

Wachusett.

Whatever the goliath was doing behind 'Choly, the dreg couldn’t see or discern, but he kept at it diligently, even as he spoke.

“I’m really hoping that’s liquor I smell, because I do not do well with being sober at any time of day.”

“Mmh. Forgive me if I’m disinclined to share my wine, for the time being. What kind of Stimpacks have you been using? I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”

“I don’t understand the question. There’s more than one kind? Hey, hey –ow stop. Ow. Ow.  _Ow_. What the fuck, Father. …Pardon the French.”

“Is it that you have so much skin… or is it simply this elastic? I can’t wait to find out what quality of leather you’ll make. But tell me, really. If it wasn’t Stimpacks, then what has made you this way? Forgive my admission you briefly disappointed me, when I figured out your prostheses weren’t simply corsetry. I’m rapt with fascination over this.” He punctuated the admiration with another sharp sensation.

“–Ow! It wasn’t Stimpacks– hey. Hey! What do you want with my skin. I’ll. I’ll give you some. But you can’t have all of it. I’m still using it.” He had an idea what the man of very large cloth wanted, but he knew presumptions had probably gotten him into this position and wasn’t about to add to them.

“Waste not, want not. Use the whole thing. Communion is commonly described as the Body and the Blood, but I’m a little more… holistic.” Wachusett grunted as he shifted slightly to move up 'Choly’s arms, and for a moment 'Choly questioned whether this were a yao guai atop him and not a man at all. “Your chest is all scarred up. Do you still have all your organs? Or was your surgical binding to stay your skin?”

“It’s a long story,” he replied, astounded that he’d asked about it despite likely having seen him completely naked. “I’m sure you’re more interesting a subject than I am. What did Maddox want with the bloodworms anyway?”

“Also a long story. He’s a talented chemist. Most raiders go to the bars, restaurants, and theaters to drink. But you were there at the market instead. You must have some interest in chems, if you care to hold company with Maddox instead of the other raiders.”

“They… I’m new. It’s like transferring to a new school, and being the new kid trying to find a table in the cafeteria that’ll let him sit with them. But, you’re not wrong. I’ve got all kinds of unorthodox chem talent. …Wait, where’s Angel? Please tell me you didn’t leave him in Nuka Town.”

“Your machine? Hmph, no, it followed me home. Once I brought you inside, I turned it off. It was irritating me. I might take it apart for salvage later.” Wachusett ran his fingers along the soft, pliant flesh of 'Choly’s arms. “You… don’t seem too ruffled, to know the position you’re in. Perhaps you understand, where others haven’t.”

“…Yeah, I figured you’d be killing me. I welcome it.” 'Choly went limp on the cool wooden surface. “God knows what’s in the other side, if there even is one. But it’s gotta be better than this. Was The Great War the Rapture? Kingdom come… If this is Heaven, I probably deserve Hell.”

“You certainly don’t speak like the others. The things you’re saying, you know things. You’re familiar with The Faith, although it doesn’t seem you’re especially faithful. Where do you hail from?”

Suddenly the utility of playing Scheherazade manifested clearly for him. Wachusett swung around behind 'Choly on the low table, now facing his feet. A dry grin crossed his exhausted face, and he resigned to the understanding that the goliath was diligently stitching his prize together so it wouldn’t move. Like some demented spider. 'Choly made himself an easy medium to work with, now that he knew the desired effect.

“I’m from about two hundred ten years ago, Father.”

“…Where, not when?”

“Concord. The Lexington one. My house was in a little suburb Northeast of there when the bombs fell. You know what a vault is?”

“My. Mmh, yes I know of them. The Hinter doesn’t have many. The only one I’ve heard speak of by name is Vault 140 in the ruins of Manchester. I’m sure there are others in the Great North, but I don’t speak Keb. Are you suggesting they might be time machines?”

“Mine was, so to speak. Everyone who sought shelter in mine got frozen. I only last year thawed out. It’s just speculation since I’m a unique case, being the only survivor of Vault 111, but I’m pretty sure the chemicals they used for cryogenesis permeated my skin. A prewar ghoul in Boston told me once in admiration that it sounded like the backstory for some great hero. He’s very into comic books. It’s how he grounds himself in the aftermath of the end of the world, I guess. Anyway, pardon me for reciprocating the nosiness, Father, but… I’m not the only mutant in this room, am I? I saw your teeth before. They’re impressive.”

“I’m losing my taste for precision, with you being so complacent to the rite.” Wachusett laid down next to him and held his head closer to his own with one hand, and sniffed deeply of his hair. He then guided 'Choly to face him, and up close he presented his teeth. Not quite perfect, but incredibly well aligned despite how they looked like they shouldn’t have reasonably all fit in his mouth. “I’m not mutated. I’m transfigured.” He ran his pointed tongue along his fangs for emphasis, quietly prideful. “Perhaps you, too, are transfigured in this way. You describe to me that you were reborn into this transfigured world. You did not have this skin before you were frozen? It’s… truly remarkable.”

'Choly narrowly caught himself from the impulse of closing the inches between them to kiss that monstrously appetent mouth.

“Are you from that Vault 140 you mentioned?”

“Mm, no. I was born here in the Hinter. Raised by a caravan family that used to frequent Nuka World.”

“So you’ve… always been so tall?” He had to keep his damn faculties about him, not to tack on  _and handsome_.

“The Faith has given me all I have. My wealth is in my body. The raiders of Nuka can have all the money in the world. Caps can’t buy the solace of a spirit at one with its vessel.”

“You sure are the oddest fundamentalist Christian I’ve ever met, Father. What denomination do you say you are?”  _A very beautiful one._

Wachusett simply thought a moment, then laughed and stood to resume his ritualistic mannerisms. 'Choly could tell he’d removed his shirt, wearing thick, broad bracers to keep his pants aloft. If he’d had on his glasses, he’d have been able to tell they were once an armor harness. He watched as best he could, strangely tickled that this house barely had ceiling clearance for such a deliriously tall creature. Wachusett had to be nearly seven feet tall, though his mere presence certainly made him feel even bigger still.

“The way you call me that, you really must think my name is Father Wachusett.”

“I’m sorry. The way the slaves talk about you, they make it sound like it’s your name. Would you prefer something else, Father?”

“I’m not a pastor, though I do share the Faith with those who will listen willingly.” The giant returned and sat beside him with a lap of glass equipment. 'Choly dared not budge trying to look. God, he really was going to kill him, wasn’t he? “Mmh, Wachusett suits me fine. I’m not the same man my parents named.”

“Coming to terms with a new name for yourself, huh? I rela–” Melancholy cut off, hissing as he got stuck in the soft fold behind his knee. He nearly bucked his feet, but the way they were stitched together prevented him from bending his legs. “What ARE you doing?”

“Following the path of transubstantiation, of course.” A long breath escaped Wachusett as he admired the equipment do its work. “You’re small, so I won’t get all too many Stimpacks from you. Not near as many as a Gatorclaw, or a CaRADbou. But something tells me your skin isn’t the only special thing about you.”

“Are you trying to tell me you make Stimpacks from Deathclaw blood!? No wonder you’re a redwood. Holy shit, Father. …Pardon.”

“The only sin in my eyes is resisting the changes this transfigured world provides us. She has given us the responsibility of becoming more. The constant state of self-improvement is crucial to the Faith. To express vanity is to express zeal for Her boon.”

“You… you believe God a woman?” 'Choly was slipping into dizziness, the pounding in his head louder but slower. Suddenly, terming the Father a fundamentalist seemed a bubble off.

“Only a woman could set in motion the birth of a perpetually new and ever-changing world. The Rapture freed us from the shackles of entropy. The before times were a void of potential, but She brought salvation to humanity in a chance to grow. Do you agree?”

 _If I say yes, will he let me go? …Do I_  want  _him to let me go?_  He was certain he wouldn’t be missed.

“I do. I’ve… I’ve been in a long journey of self-reinvention ever since I stepped foot out of cryogenesis. I’ve undergone lots of chemical and surgical treatment to make my body more like how I mentally and emotionally feel about myself. I’ve my whole life, though, subscribed to the slogan 'Better Living Through Chems.’ I was a military chemist before the war. So I guess you could say I’ve believed in something quite similar to what you’re describing… nearly 250 years now.” Melancholy laughed lugubriously, his throat viscous. “Are you going to eat me, Father?”

“You’ll stay a part of me in this way. I’m grateful for our chat. I typically revel in butchering the raiders, but it somehow means a great deal more, to know my latest Communion was of like spirit.” After a long silence, the implement came out of 'Choly’s knee, and he felt Wachusett lean over him. A repetitive snipping sound could be heard, and soon Melancholy could tell Wachusett was popping the stitches he’d doted. “…Of course, there are many forms Communion might take.”

“You must get lonely up here, all by yourself. I wouldn’t happen to be so lucky as to discover… that Communion might include other expressions of the flesh.”

A short laugh came out of the goliath.

“You’re so small, yet brazen enough to extend such an offer. Perhaps you do value your life more than you let on, if you’re trying to barter for it.”

“It’s selfishness before anything. I… I was enthralled by the creatures in horror and science fiction books before the war. Now that I’ve awoken in this… transfigured landscape… I’ve found that the world has given birth to some that are even more beautiful than those of fiction. I’ve always told myself, if I was ever going to die, that I wanted to go out banging, to put it coarsely.” He knew Wachusett had told him he wasn’t a priest, but 'Choly simply couldn’t shake the sentiment of polite company with this deferential monstrosity.

“Mmh, I have a better offer. I’m surprised you haven’t realized by now I didn’t drain you in entirety. How does an exchange sound to you? It’s… not every day I meet someone so much like myself. The more you talk, the more grateful I am that you spoke before I quartered you.”

“Serendipity,” 'Choly murmured dumbly, barely holding onto consciousness at this point. “What kind of exchange?”

“I can make Stimpacks of myself, and administer them to you. Then, when I use those I make of you, you’ll be in my veins… and I’ll be in yours.” Something akin to a blush crossed the Father’s face.

“A blood pact,” Melancholy deduced. It was so singular, to observe Wachusett found greater intimacy in such a thing than he did carnal satisfaction. “Perpetuating continued flourishing in a partnership of two of us, rather than one consuming the other to become a single greater thing. I could only dream to become anything like you, Father.”

“It takes many years and much diligence to become so transfigured. Perhaps if you’ll make a regular pilgrimage here, you’d begin to observe the difference the Faith can make in your life?”

“I do think you’re the first person who’s ever actually told me they wanted to see me again, when it wasn’t because I owed them money.” 'Choly rolled over on his side and seethed, looking up at the Father, who sat in the floor beside him, cross-legged. He couldn’t tell if it was his imagination, but the tougher parts of his skin looked to have taken on a hide-like appearance, darker, irregularly segmented, and slightly glossy.

“So this pleases you?”

“The way you describe a blood transfusion turns my crank like you’d never imagine,” ‘Choly replied, “and I don’t think I’d in my life say anything remotely along those lines. You’re a damn self-professed vampire, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure what that is, but you seem as certain I define it as those in the Nuka World are certain I’m a 'Father Wachusett.’ I trust your assessment.” He reached across the room from his seat to retrieve Melancholy’s glasses, and offered them, and the pipsqueak took them gladly, though he didn’t have the energy to sit up yet.

With the room in focus, he observed the glass vessels in the shelves around him were filled with various pieces of creatures. Some of them were bone, like the hurricane glass of cleaned teeth, while others were preserved in liquid. One jar looked at first glance to be filled with eyes, and he slumped his exhausted head back onto the wooden table top and squinted his eyes shut. Somehow he couldn’t decide whether he was grateful to have regained his eyesight.

“It will take some hours for me to prepare the Stimpacks.” Wachusett had gone from the room while Melancholy lazed. “I’ll be in the next room. You’re free to look around, but I’d rather you didn’t touch anything without asking. How is your appetite? I made a bloodworm aspic this morning, and I’m quite proud how it turned out.”

“…I think I’ll pass for now.”


	3. Mustard Seeds

Before all else, Melancholy crawled across the floor to retrieve his clothing. Lamenting his slashed surgical binding, he slipped back into his taupe dress shirt and gold foliage-embroidered brown suit. The texture of fabric grazing the site of fresh stitches left him repeatedly scraping his bottom lip against his teeth; despite the discomfort, he failed to be bothered enough to pick out the surgical floss. Too, only the trousers got buttoned, leaving the jacket, vest, and dress shirt all hanging open. There was no immediate way to draw back his long, stringy black hair. He hung the bolo tie with its triangular black enamel pendant around his neck, but did not bother tightening it, and put his shoes back on.

He paced the worn down space, trying to collect himself. Soon he noticed his chain-swathed gadget cane, the Curmudgeon, leaning behind the front door in an umbrella stand, and he took it, both to arm himself should he need it, and to facilitate his unsteady gait even as little as it did, aid which he definitely needed, in lieu of his braces. He did not locate his guns so easily, nor Angel.

Accompanied by the clicking of his cane along the broken linoleum floor, he traversed the front end of the small dwelling. Scant of furniture, he presumed this was the father’s killing floor. His work space. Just the low wooden table, which functioned to elevate the victim and facilitate the ritualistic regimen, and the shelves of jars. Suddenly he hoped he’d live to see Wachusett in action, as his finesse felt most skilled. He’d come to admire the killer so readily already, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint how, or why.

Except it was exactly how, and exactly why. Wachusett was a creature, both in behavior and specimen. A monstrosity through and through. Yet, a civil one, one of thoroughly chilling charisma. He shivered, thinking again of those teeth presented inches from his face.

Melancholy could tell he’d been out long enough to be dehydrated and in dire need of nutrition. In a situation like this, Angel would be administering a rapid-hydration saline injection while it coddled him with his patent-pending panacea, Melancholia. But he wasn’t even certain Angel had remained in one piece, lacking confidence that Wachusett had any knowledge of how to turn technology, such as a Mr. Handy, on and off by any means besides the application of physical force.

His head still throbbed, and he couldn’t be confident of the source; so, he assumed his constitution was on account of all of the above. And, without Angel to fix it for him, he’d have to fix it himself.

“Father, you don’t happen to have any water I could drink? My mouth is full of cotton.”

“So you are interested in eating and drinking,” he heard the smooth, low voice reply from the next room. “Give me a moment to get the distillation running. Then we can both have a snack.”

‘Choly nodded to the air, not realizing Wachusett couldn’t see him from there, and his eyes wandered the space again. He could glean no particular rhyme to the contents of the preserved specimens in the jars, besides the fact he could also make out plant material in them. Mirelurk hatchlings, bloodworms, fleshy masses of some vaguely amphibious origin. The largest one rested at the floor, and had in it the spiral horn of a sizable deathclaw; but, the golden preservative only reached about two-thirds of the way up the feet-long keratinous prize. He was about to wonder aloud what kind of container that must have once been, but he’d dazed enough to be caught off guard by a large hand upon his shoulder.

“The way you’re scrutinizing my wine, you must be second-guessing the request for water as well, small friend.”

“Wine–?”

“Hubflower wine,” Wachusett nodded, picking up one of the hatchling bottles and holding it close to ‘Choly’s face. The bottle contained translucent specimens of both animal and vegetable origin, and upon inspection he could definitely make out the characteristic silhouette of the flower mentioned. "It’s a fine blend of my personal wasteland herbalism. The vitae of both plant and animal, in union and in harmony.“

Against his better judgment, Melancholy nodded in affirmation that he’d like a glass. He still felt an impending sense that this geniality was further intricacy to Wachusett’s ritualism, and that he was still on the menu. The Operator noticed his host had again donned the patchwork cassock with its leather yoke, and he hoped this was a gesture of hospitality and graciousness. Decency did not quite seem an accurate speculation for it, owing to the father’s vanity. With such a pleasing host, he wanted to make himself as pleasant a guest as possible.

The recluse produced a whiskey glass and wiped it out a bit with his vestment hem before pouring for his willing captive. He started ‘Choly with a half-glass.

"Do you have any names?”

The Operator took the glass when offered, and wafted the vaguely turbid liquor. 

 “If anybody calls me by name, it’s usually Melancholy. ‘Choly works, too.”

None of the crustacean nymphs had fallen into the drink, but a lone, translucent lavender petal of hubflower drifted about in the faint opalescence. Briny and grassy odors infiltrated his senses, and once courageous enough to take a sip, austere spice arrested his mouth. The sharpness warmed into the honeyed floral notes characteristic of raw hubflower, as well as the tart pepperiness reminiscent of quince and cassis which one might expect from tarberry. He quickly took a second sip when the grassiness jarred into outright stemminess, in an attempt to stop his lip from curling.

“I know it’s a dry wine,” Wachusett started, musedly watching ‘Choly’s facial expressions and pouring a flat-bottom snifter two-thirds full for himself. “The high alcohol content’s necessary to leach the vitality of the composite into it.” He let his crook-nose linger over the glass as he took in the aroma of it warming in his hand, then drank half of it in one sip and melted into a broad, comfortable smile as it lingered in his mouth. “The bouquet of aster and mirelurk chitin does wonders for one’s acuity.”

“I’ve heard that wastelanders unlock the chemical compounds naturally found in food sources, to derive benefits from eating and drinking beyond simply satisfying hunger and thirst. Some wasteland cooking ingredients can even be just as effective as chems. Radscorpion egg omelettes are the best example that immediately comes to mind. But this… This is a first.” ‘Choly held up the glass and looked through the translucent, golden white wine. “There’s a lot to be said of artisan crafts such as this. You haven’t made wine from… iguana bits, have you?”

The father’s features brightened abruptly into a silent, pointed cackle, and he ushered his guest down the hallway. The shut door to the left was where he’d vanished to work, as well as a second room which seemed to have once been a classroom. To their right was the kitchen, strewn opulently with jars and braids of ingredients, and fitted with a cast-iron stove as well as a hanging hearth-pot, though he didn’t believe either at the moment were lit. ‘Choly had wondered where the earthy, smoky smells in the shack emanated from.

“Here, take a seat,” Wachusett urged, standing behind him in the doorway to the once-classroom, now-parlor. “Hinter wines can be quite heady if you’re unacclimated.”

When the father didn’t answer his question with more than delirium, ‘Choly felt uncertain whether to press further. But he complied, taking in the details of the space from the comfort of a pale high-back chair, the stuffing of which distended against the aged velveteen upholstery. It was a minimal space, with a chalkboard still in-tact, a few short bookshelves, a pedestal off to one side, and a metal desk in the far corner. For sake of space, ‘Choly imagined all the student desks had been removed. It didn’t seem entirely useful for entertaining, so the Operator amended his prior definition that this was likely closer to a study in function. Then again, he was uncertain that Wachusett kept much company.

The only other chair was at the desk, but Wachusett favored sitting on the side of the desk. His glossy, pale eyes peered interestedly at his guest.

“You must be quite the chemist, if you can understand that foods can yield the same potency as many chems. Everyone has their own itinerary of recipes. What fare is your signature meal?”

“I only sound like I understand it,” ‘Choly admitted, sinking dizzily into the armchair with another astringent sip of wine. “My knowledge is tangential at best. I’m a terrible cook. I’ve always favored mass-produced foods: stuff like Fancy Lads, TV dinners, or Cram. My Handy, Angel, is exceptional when it’s got prewar ingredients at its disposal, but it makes… mistakes with its wasteland substitutions more often than not.”

“Mmh. Out here, the resources for conventional chemist’s work are scant, and prewar food caches are scarce due to how few towns existed in the mountains in the Hinter. I traveled with The Family in my youth. The Hinter chapter of Children are nomadic and migrate with the fog currents. Always on the move as that, one learns not just everything that’s edible, but everything that’s readily useful. Poultices, serums, teas. And not only what’s useful–but how to make it most useful.” Wachusett dropped the subject to walk toward the kitchen. “–Here, let us bookmark this topic. You said you were hungry, and I can’t imagine you’re anything short of ravenous. I’ll plate you something for brunch.”

“That would be exceptional.”

‘Choly watched the father’s feet, noticing now unlike before that the creature’s gait was silent and lithe. Surely his heavy steps at the Nuka Market had been purposeful, to be heard and seen. How sleekly he moved about the kitchen across the hallway, perhaps mood had had everything to do with it. Wachusett was certainly quite chipper now. Yet, the dreg felt Wachusett was playful no matter the mood.

“What was it you drugged me with, anyway?” he questioned of the next room over, not moving from his seat.

“I suppose it does no harm to tell you; I call it Sleight. I put it in your drink, though I’m sure you knew that much. Most raiders pay more attention to the monetary property, and the nuisance of the obstruction to their activity, to think there was anything in the underside of the cap. Clearly, you, too, thought nothing of the foreign object in your liquor. Either that, or you were too stubborn to forfeit it. Typically… that mannerism is what drives me to hunt raiders. It’s odd, to know someone who knows all that you do, is caught up with the affectations of greed. An Operator is the last individual I’d ever suspect to find bears like-mindedness.”

“It’s more the chems than anything,” ‘Choly elucidated. “They have an incredible chem racket going. I told you I was a prewar chemist? I trafficked on the side. It made resources more accessible, so I could experiment more. Toy more. What kind of chem is Sleight, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s an extractive of black bloodleaf. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve experienced a lot of altered mental states in my life, but nothing quite like that. I knew it wasn’t anything I’ve partaken in before. Disjointed, but entirely lucid. I suppose this black bloodleaf is a relative of the red variety, or possibly even a cultivar or crossbreed?”

“–Here we are.” Ignoring the question as a verbalized thought, the father strode up pleasantly to ‘Choly with a metal plate in each hand, and offered one boasting servings of several different dishes. Among them were two different sliced cuts of what he presumed was meat, a slice from a ring mold of gelatin, and a mixture of vegetables with a dark sauce. “It’s mostly leftovers, besides the aspic, but I’ve found it keeps quite well in the ice-box. Try it chilled, if you would, but I’ll gladly reheat it if it’s not to your liking.”

“What… is it I’m looking at here?” He set the wine on the wooden floor beside the chair to take the plate in one hand and poke around at it with the silver fork that had been set on the plate’s edge for him. “I’m afraid I’m not great at identifying wasteland meat.”

“The paler cut is an iguana wellington,” Wachusett elaborated as he returned to sit on the desk, having already put a bite of it in his mouth. “The darker cut is gazelle, which I roasted with the carrots and blight there. The relish… is a secret. And of course, the aspic is bloodworm filets with a bit of aster to balance it out.”

The Operator eyed the pale slices of rare meat, wrapped in several layers of herb paste and breaded. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his imagination from speculating what cut of meat it had been. Well-marbled, and it cut tenderly with the edge of his fork, even cold. Not brave enough at first, he sampled the relish-doused vegetables. The sauce had mutfruit in it for sure, owing to its zesty bite, but there were also caramelized meat notes to it. A pan-glaze, but heartier.

Steeled by knowing at least one thing on the plate was delicious, he popped half a slice of the wellington in his mouth. What surprised him more than the truth that iguana definitely tasted like pork, was the mixtures of herbs. Creamy and savory, but perplexingly so. His brows high, he put the other half in his still-full mouth. He’d never much cared one way or another that people ate ‘iguana’ in the post-apocalypse, but he himself shied from it. In no other circumstance would he have ever given iguana a chance, but now he was sold where he’d turned his nose prior.

“I didn’t know iguana could be so… rich. Most people I’ve seen just, like… roast the fingers that blew off. But this, it’s obvious you killed and cut it up with the intention of cooking it. Picked the perfect cut for the application. Maddox was right. You’re an artist. A chef.”

“Considering just earlier you were asking me if I wasted my winecraft on iguana, it surprises me–and flatters me deeply–that you like it.” Smiling to himself, Wachusett picked at his aspic a bit, fishing for a flake of bloodworm in the ruddy gelatin. “I pride myself in my cooking. It’s an extension of the Faith for me, and an expression of transubstantiation that extends to many applications. I… don’t get the opportunity to share my craft.”

“You said you belonged to a religious chapter? Do you visit them often? I’m sure like-minded individuals could come together and throw some exceptionally lavish potlucks.”

The father set his plate down in favor of finishing his wine, and stared distantly at the sigils and notes scrawled on the chalkboard behind ‘Choly.

“We’ve become estranged. Our beliefs have grown too different. Several brothers and sisters consider me a heretic, for having expanded my understanding of Atom through the teachings of the before-times.”

“Your ‘family’ doesn’t take too kindly to Christian schools of thought, I’m guessing.”

“Absolutely not. Many will not even bother themselves to study other religions, considering the mere study of it blasphemous. Physics and Chemistry are the only holy texts they touch.” Wachusett’s gaze deepened, as though looking beyond the wall. “But elements of Atom’s divinity were well studied, even before She brought forth the Rapture. In the holy works of the Christians was a parable which compares cultivating one’s faith to cultivating a mustard seed. If the Faithful tends it, it becomes strong, healthy. Division is fruitful. But the extent to which the Faithful is the cultivator is so limited among the Children. I want to be the strongest, healthiest, and most fruitful and diverse worlds-vessel I can be.”

“Your body is a temple,” ‘Choly remarked thoughtfully, raking sauce off his fork with his lips. “Mustard. I can taste the mustard in this. It’s mutfruit chutney. Fantastic.”

The father’s thousand-yard gaze fell on ‘Choly, and the Operator felt transparent as glass in that moment.

“The Confessor was wrong. There  _were_  individuals who could see clearly in the before-times.” He didn’t easily shake his stare. His guest had frozen and near-entirely stopped breathing, out of uncertainty how to interpret their connection in that moment. “Forgive me. Please, eat. You’ll need your strength to partake in the Communion. I’ll leave you to finish. I must check on the distillation.”

Before ‘Choly could get a word in, the mountain of a man had effortlessly slipped out of the room and to the other end of the shack. It was clear to him now just how the mirelurk wine had heightened his senses, how he could astutely hear Wachusett lock the door behind him down the hall. And the faint rhythmic unintelligible mumbling which he was certain intimated something of a Hail Mary.

Perhaps, rather than a dissection of Melancholy, the father intended praise.


End file.
